


//bullet

by MostlyAMan



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gun Kink, Guro, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-03-03 14:41:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2854499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyAMan/pseuds/MostlyAMan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Older, wiser, but still playing their mind games. You don't dare Dante. Abstract, weird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	//bullet

"You don't have the nerve to."

Was that a dare?

 

How incredible and beautiful he was on his knees, forcibly prostrate with a hateful glare and ruffled hair. He was older, with fifty more years of agony and torture weathered into his face, yet somehow, he didn't look any different. He'd muttered into his reflection in a grubby mirror in the bathroom with a pair of scissors (slightly rusted, as grimy as the rest of the place- he'd never been any good at keeping anything clean) as he hacked at far too much hair for his liking. It fell in wet clumps, exposing the lines of muscle on his body, devoid of shame of his bareness- instead, it was his filthy state that he'd despised, and when the shower vomited rust-coloured water with its dying cry, he cursed maybe a little too loudly and pardoned himself.

What wonderful manners he had.

Shame it was all an act. Ivory nuzzled his brother's cheek in mock affection and his tongue darted out when it passed close to his mouth.

"You sure about that?"

"Of course I am. You couldn--"

It exploded in the blink of an eye. With a twitch of his finger, he was gone.

 

Vergil's brain splattered the wall behind them and he slumped to the floorboards, shot ringing poignantly in the silence and Dante's ears. His smirk refused to die as he shook the man so eerily like him with his boot. No. No, he wasn't done yet. He admired his work, observing how the unnatural bullet tore so much open and just how much had been blown out. It was a mess, real Hammer horror, bright, sick and saturated like someone fucked with the colour sliders in his brain; the red was so much more vivid to Dante and it made his dick and heart ache for his brother. Behind closed doors, this was what he dreamt of, what he truly lusted after- brutality that no woman should ever be subjected to and that no human could ever wish to survive.

He dumped himself back down in his chair, wide-legged and authoritative, with a heavy sigh. To make it less of a struggle, he pushed his hips up and popped open the straining button of his jeans and unzipped the rough, blood-splattered garment with a certain relish.

A groan caught his attention.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty, nice of you to join us!" Dante cooed, leaning forwards with thick forearms resting on his knees. "Enjoy your sleep?"

Another groan, truly pathetic. Vergil's head was still blown open, blood wet on his pretty, pretty face, cracked open above his eye. Slowly, the skin was knitting itself closed at the gaping, vile wound's narrowest point on his face. One glazed eye hazarded a blink, but only got half way before it slumped back. His tongue laid heavy against the floor, failed to be held back by a slack, lifeless jaw.

Vergil was a fucking mess, and that was putting it lightly.

Dante laughed.

"You hear me? Geez, Verg', check you out! Look like you're choking down cock, I knew you had it in you!"

The eye twitched again. Yeah, he could hear him. Every single fucking word.

Vergil made another sound, as if he were trying to say... Fuck, Dante couldn't tell, but it was with a bit more spirit than beforehand.

"Huh? What's that? You want mine? I thought you were playing hard-to-get..."

He looked the slumped form over again, appraising him. It was only once he saw it that the smell really hit him, but Vergil had pissed himself hopelessly and must have felt it, fuming internally, ready to scream at Dante, curse him to the death and slam his head into the floorboard over and over, so hard that they'd break... right? Dante scoffed.

"Should I bother, bro?" He mused as he pushed the hard-wearing sole of his boot into that handsome face. He just couldn't keep away, far too curious for his own good, like a boy with a jar of tadpoles, fascinated by their tails and bizarre little bodies. Vergil was something rare, taboo, an aristocratic creature made of crisp edges and propriety. Unattainable. Somehow better. He slid down to his feet, crouching wide-kneed over his high-class roadkill, a noble gored in the field by wolves and left to rot under the summer sun, ripe for deconstruction by curiosity, or observed from afar with a sword by those less brave, or those with shame.

One of Vergil's immaculate hands, an elegant yet masculine thing, was taken in his own, so rough and fucked-up by years of guns and swords and hitting things. Identically-sized, from wrist to fingertip. From elegant knuckle to short-clipped nail, he examined, feeling the splutterings of a struggling pulse coming to terms with events.

"Do you want to feel it?"

Feel what?

"You know..."

No. No, I don't.

With warm, healthy thumb steadying palm and fingers wrapped carefully around wrist, Vergil's lifeless hand scraped the soft, cold-edged matter that laid inside his gaping skull, undoing the careful work his blood slaved over. His brother, morbidly fascinated, squeezed tendon that raked unforgivingly, through the offal that constructed 'Vergil'. How different was his own? If the meat was shared? Would they change? If he were to slip, a fist would mash him into something that couldn't recover.

Or could he?

A twisted, broken adoration overrode curiosity.

He relished the scrape of each finger against skull, trying his hardest not to miss a scrap.

The stagnant, congealing mindflesh that splattered with the blood was scooped up lovingly and dumped back in. How their own bodies worked, it was a mystery.

Flesh for Flesh.

The law all bodies obeyed.

 

He laid there opposite him, back to his chair, and watched as life scraped itself back together. Supernatural memory, like a saved state, reconstructed the workings that made 'Vergil'. It rewired him, sewed raw flesh into something old, that Dante didn't dare to touch lest he took more than he was permitted. He whispered, hushed, of his affection. He told his secrets to a captive audience that began to focus his eyes and struggled to grip the fine art of blinking.

Every sordid detail.

Every secret shame.

Just like before.


End file.
